mixing refuse of the heart with words of truth for sprinkling on seeds of hope

Shattered

An oval platter perches in the drainer, precariously balanced. I notice the carefully arranged pile of clean dishes, resting just so by the one who managed to fit every washed and rinsed piece together like a tower of Jenga blocks.

I lean over the pile to open the cupboard above, the one that holds medicines, vitamins, and the thermometer. My arm bumps the platter which loses its balance on the top of the stack and crashes to the floor, breaking into pieces.

The noise itself is enough to evoke strong response. A child stands near, waiting for me to retrieve cold medicine. I swallow back words rising to the surface, past my chest, into my throat, longing to escape my lips in a fury of noise.

Stand back. A dish just broke. Are you hurt? Watch out for the pieces.

I take care of the medicine and send her upstairs to get ready for bed as I gather the shatter.

I have two other identical platters, left over from days when I was snatching replacements up on Ebay. I am not sad that it is broken as much as I am annoyed that I have to clean the mess.

I want to blame someone for this, for the fact that something fell unexpectedly and broke, even though it was the result of imbalance and gravity. I turn on myself in a familiar pattern. I could have emptied the tower of dishes from the drainer before reaching over to get cold medicine for a child. Does it matter?

There is no fault.

It’s not about the falling or breaking or blaming. It is about what stirs inside. Always the stirring.

Splintered

Going backwards to find myselfPicking up the piecesFragments like the broken platter on the kitchen floor.

The large shards are easy to see, to gatherI collect them in a stack and set them aside to glue laterWhere are the splinters?

Those are the bits that will surprise out of nowhereIn the middle of the nightSeemingly invisible, yet sharpPiercingUnseen by the eye but felt by the skin when inadvertently stepped upon

I trust a well-placed light to illumine the spaceRevealing the slivers before they can harmI’m finding the pieces to put back together

But should one go missing and enter the skinA light can illumine the bit of the edgeTo pull out with tweezers before it goes deep

Large parts of the storycollected in filesIn my mind, in my journals, in my heartThey are gathered, assembled While the splinters remain scatteredWaiting their turn to be collected, tooJust in a different wayOften piercing under the skinSurfacingSeen by the light of loveTended by kindessTo be put back togetherRevealing a brand new purpose.

Julie – You really touched a deep spot in me with this story – the large pieces are stored in files – but a light is needed to illumine the splinters – “While the splinters remain scattered
Waiting their turn to be collected, tooJust in a different way.” Thank you for sharing this. From your heart to ours. You are a gem.

Barbara, this makes my heart glad. I wrestle with ambivalence in sharing my words. Much healing has come through the kind responses from and gracious interactions with readers like you. I am growing in confidence. A gem. I am going to sit with that a bit. Thank you.